Grilled Caprese and the Magic of Florence
Grief, bravado, and curiosity can share the same plate
I was in love the moment I jumped into the cab at the airport. Florence glittered in the dark—a welcoming beacon to a group of travel-weary American students who couldn’t wait to wander her narrow streets.
We didn’t waste a second.
It was after midnight when the taxi dropped us off at our new apartment. Despite having just traveled for 30 hours to cross the Atlantic, we couldn’t sleep.
“As we walked around the city, we heard street musicians playing the violin. High-end fashion outlets line the street just around the corner from our apartment. And practically outside the door is the Arno, breathtaking even without the sun to illuminate it”, I journaled before bed hours later.
I also wrote about men on the street making “gestures that were new to me” that I “could have lived without”, and trying to ignore the sound of my neighbors across the street exploring each other well into the warm August night. The perils of 800-year-old walls and streets the width of an alley.
Before I’d even boarded the plane to Florence, I’d said what I knew would be my final goodbye to my nana, who died a week after I arrived in Italy. “It’s like all the colors in these picturesque views have grayed out”, I wrote. The grief felt all-consuming, and at first, I wasn’t sure I’d make it through the next four months.
But Nana wanted me to be there. She wanted me to experience all of the beauty life has to offer. She wanted me to have adventures, and Florence beckoned with vibrant art, bustling crowds, and of course, irresistible food.
Who could say “no” to gelato around every corner, rows of prosciutto and mortadella hanging in shop windows, and bread so soft it melts in your mouth? Not to mention €4 wine that didn’t remind me of gasoline? Firenze had me by the heart and the taste buds.
I wanted to know how everything in this city tasted amazing, so when a cooking class was offered to Kent State Florence students, I was ecstatic.
I fancied myself quite the cook. I had been working at a Chipotle for more than two years at this point, so I knew things, ok? I could steel a knife and use it to bend vegetables to my will. I could grill large quantities of marinated meat to juicy perfection. I was ready to take center stage.
The journey to cooking class took us across town, to the other side of the Arno1. Long walks through the city were my preferred method of coping with my grief, so Nana was on my mind. She was such a fantastic cook. I couldn’t let her down.
Inside the cooking school InTavola, I felt at home among the tables of cold, stainless steel. My spine straightened when I put on the shiny white, plastic apron. My fingers twitched at the sight of a knife and cutting board. Curtain’s up.
Chef explained the menu: Eggplant caprese, fettuccine all’arrabbiata2, ravioli with a potato and meat sauce filling, and tiramisu.
To make the arrabbiata sauce, we had to dice carrots, celery, onion, and garlic. Finally. Chef stopped to show us how to use the knife to mince garlic and I felt a twinge of impatience. I know this, let’s go. Then with one deft movement, Chef flipped a garlic clove out of the peel using the tip of the knife.
Every moment of my life I’d wasted picking at garlic peels and cursing flashed before my eyes. Did this man make a deal with the devil? I briefly closed my slightly agape mouth, then reopened it to ask him to show me how he just did that. Each attempt chipped away at the false bravado I carried into the kitchen.
It didn’t stop there. What is semolina flour, anyway? What’s the best way to knead the pasta dough again? How do I grill this eggplant perfectly? My expectations of greatness, the nagging grief in the back of my mind—all melted into curiosity.
When the meal was done, about two dozen people gathered around a massive table that took up most of the room—enclosed with exposed brick and shelves of wine. The eggplant was crisp. Silky ribbons of fettuccine snuggled into the fiery arrabbiata. Pillows of ravioli exploded with flavor. The creamy tiramisu elicited a sigh from more than one person. Conversation, laughter and the clink of wine glasses mingled in the air. Salute.
My cooking class in Florence stuck with me so much, I still make fettucine all’arrabbiata and the eggplant caprese at home. You can find the recipe for my version of caprese here.
The historic center of Florence is located north of the Arno River. Most of the city’s famous attractions are here, including the Duomo, The Uffizi Gallery, and the shopping along Via de' Tornabuoni. Study abroad students quickly learn “the other side of the Arno” means the south bank, where there are fewer tourists.
A spicy, tomato-based pasta sauce that originated in the Lazio region. Arrabbiata translates to “angry”.
I can almost taste it! -- which will have to suffice for now, because I can't quite cook this well. Still looking forward to the recipie!